


though the paint is cracked and dry

by harrylyman



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Blindness, Canon Disabled Character, Family, Family Bonding, Gen, for anyone out there who misses jack murdock with their whole heart, just a wholesome time vuv, oh yeah and matt has radar sense like in the comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylyman/pseuds/harrylyman
Summary: A small drabble exploring Jack and Matt's dynamic after the accident, because we all need some wholesome father-son bonding in these trying times.





	though the paint is cracked and dry

“You done your homework?” Jack Murdock’s voice was gruff and muffled, chin likely against his chest; Matt could hear him kicking out of his shoes. The old wood that made up the door frame gave a subtle groan as the big man took his weight off it. Matt’s comparatively gentle touch on the braille sheet lifted, tilting his head towards his father. “Almost. Why, are we doing somethin’?”

Jack’s heavy feet moved through the narrow space of their kitchen. Matt heard something clatter – very light wood or cardboard, he thought, though he wasn’t sure – with every step. Whatever it was slipped from his dad’s grip and onto the kitchen counter. “Yeah, got ya something. Finish up, kid.”

Though the boy’s fingerpads returned to the sheet, they didn’t move yet. As Jack continued into the living room and slumped into his chair with a low huff, his son’s mind ran a hundred miles. It wasn’t his birthday, in fact it wasn’t even close, and the Murdocks didn’t exactly have an income to waste. Insatiable curiosity had him tune in on that one sense he couldn’t explain; the one where it felt like he was touching everything but in a mental sort of way. It was hard to distinguish between the many impressions, but eventually he could make out the rectangular anomaly on the counter.

Not much wiser, the eleven year old worried his bottom lip between his teeth thoughtfully before returning to his homework. Apparently that would be the only way to solve this mystery.

Jack returned about twenty minutes later as Matt put his school supplies away, stuffing them carefully into the backpack under the kitchen table. He moved to get up, but a firm if gentle hand came down on his shoulder, “Don’t bother, Matty.” The rattle of cardboard was back, Jack easily being able to reach the rectangle from where he was standing. The curious boy remained, listening as his father sat down across of him. The boxer was heavy, obvious enough to anyone, but Matt heard even the faint creak from the metal and plastic chair as it bent under his weight. If there was one face he was sure he wouldn’t ever forget, it was his dad’s, but he’d found new things to remember him by, too. The smell of old sweat could be found on anyone, but with Battlin’ Jack’s there was the stale taste of Fogwell Gym, traced in the ring’s abused ropes, pummeled leather bags, torn skin and bloody bandages. Matt loved it. The gym was as much their home as the apartment.

There was more to his father than the gym, but not much. The shaving cream he used, his favorite meal that was luckily cheap to make and thus ever-present in his breath, the way his beaten muscles groaned and how he’d flick his tongue into the cavity where a broken tooth had once been when he was thinking. How his chapped mouth felt when he’d press it to Matt’s forehead.

Cardboard hit the table’s respatex surface, shaking the kid from his thoughts. His hands came up instinctively, hovering as he waited. Sure enough, rough fingers soon wrapped around his wrists and guided them towards the rectangle. Something was different about it, and when Jack let go of his wrists and Matt’s fingers curled around the rectangle’s edge, he realised it had been opened. A box, then. Matt pulled it carefully towards himself before he slipped his fingers into it. His skin brushed across more cardboard, small sturdy pieces, and his brows scrunched above his dark glasses as he realised what it was.

“You got me a puzzle?” Matt couldn’t hide the tint of disbelief to his own voice. Jack adjusted in his seat, crossing his arms on the table. “’S right, figured solving it’d be a good exercise.” Matt’s mouth moved soundlessly, looking for the right words as frustration welled inside him, “But dad, I can’t even see it. I got no idea what the pieces look like, or how the picture’s gonna be–” “Matty–” “What’s the point? It’s useless, I’m–” “Matthew.” Jack’s tone was final, cutting off his son’s increasingly high-pitched protest. “You think I’m stupid? ‘Course it ain’t for you to look at. Use that genius brain a’ yours, Matty. A puzzle piece’s got edges, different shapes tha’ fit together. Find the corners just like we did ‘em before, then figure out the rest.” His hands came to wrap around Matt’s again, thumbs pressing gently into his palms in an old familiar gesture. “I’ll tell ya what the bits look like if you want, but I bet you won’t need it. We put it together, ‘n I’ll say what it looks like.” Jack retrieved his hands, arms folded once again, “So, you wanna do this?”

The boy didn’t take long to think it over, lower lip slipping from between his teeth to stretch into a careful smile. “Yeah,” he said, confidence slowly returning, “Bet I can still figure it out ‘fore you do, too.” His father snorted, and Matt’s weird touching-everything sense picked up his fingers moving before he flicked them on Matt’s forehead. The eleven year old grinned wickedly in response, and quickly set about finding the puzzle’s corners.

Hours flew by, Jack having at one point made them sandwiches for dinner, the scent of the remains tickling Matt’s nose comfortably. His glasses lay on top of the box, eyes unfocused but warm with joy as they flickered instinctively from his dad’s voice to the general direction of the pieces. Jerry Lee Lewis played on the radio and Battlin’ Jack tapped his knuckles rhythmically against the table. Matt, like any good son, tried not to wince too obviously when he missed the beat. The few times he let a playful barb slip, though, his dad just shook his head and lightly told him not to be so high-‘n-mighty.

The kid’s fingers traced the puzzle; the frame was complete, and most of it filled in with just a couple of pieces missing. His dad had described the broken images on a few pieces in the beginning, and then Matt had quickly decided he didn’t want to know. His pride swelled with every approving hum from his father, especially since he had refused him to put down any pieces himself. “Okay,” Matt said, balancing the last piece between his fingers, “You ready?” At Jack’s affirming grunt, the boy had a hard time to quench his excitement. A ridiculous smile threatened to break out across his face, and when cardboard slid effortlessly into cardboard, it couldn’t be helped. 

“Ha! I did it! Dad, d’you see?” his fingers splayed across the complete image, reassuring himself that nothing was uneven. “I sure do, kid,” Matt had quickly learnt to recognise the smile in someone’s voice, and his dad was positively grinning. He rose up and circled the small table, crouching down by Matt’s chair. His right hand came to rest on the boy’s back, warm and safe, while the other carefully shifted the puzzle. “All right, now what we got here’s an’ old locomotive, ‘s all red with some black metal bits, looks nice n’ polished…” 

Matt had read more than a few books more poetic in their descriptions than his dad, but there was something special about it all the same. ‘Seeing’ the world through his father’s eyes, as it were. Matt felt like he was being trusted with a great and beautiful secret. A joyful warmth rose in him as he listened, his small frame slumping drowsily against his father’s shoulder. With a faint smile on his lips, his eyes drifted closed, lulled by a voice like crackling embers and a steady heartbeat.


End file.
